


Ephemera

by Elysium-fic (RCD_Anon)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCD_Anon/pseuds/Elysium-fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the <i>Elysium</i> universe.  A year after a brutal attack and following deep family tragedy, Fergus Cousland stands on the brink of manhood, struggling to heal his fear and grief, and find his place.  He turns to an old family friend for aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ephemera

"Are you all right, son?"

Fergus tore his attention away from the display on the training grounds and looked at his father. The teyrn's gaze was on the activity in the dusty square as well, but he spared a glance at his firstborn out the corner of his eye.

"Certainly, Father," the seventeen year old lad said. "I'm just amazed by your friend, the Grey Warden. I've never seen anyone fight in that style."

"The Grey Wardens are without equal," Bryce replied. "I don't know if they are so skilled because they recruit only the best, or if it's something about their initiation to the order that gives them more stamina and endurance, but Duncan is truly something to behold, and not just on the battlefield."

The young nobleman smirked and dropped his voice to a discreet murmur. "Yes, Mother seems particularly pleased with everything today."

"For good reason," the teyrn answered with a satisfied smile of his own, which eventually drooped. "After the year we've had, she's well entitled to what comforts she can come by."

Fergus's smirk quickly fled, and he turned his attention back to the sparring match on the field. Though undoubtedly nearly twenty years older, the Grey Warden was completely showing up Highever's most skilled knight, and Rhys was loving every moment of it. A giddy smile crossed his freckled face, visible beneath his helmet's visor. Duncan wore no helmet, and Fergus couldn't imagine how he moved with those long leather bases swirling about him, but he managed it effortlessly, all seamless and potentially lethal motion. He danced inside the reach of the larger knight's longsword easily and somehow swept Rhys's legs out from beneath him, so that he landed in the dust with a loud clang of armor. Duncan's dagger was at his throat before he so much as had a chance to groan in pain at the abrupt landing.

"I yield, ser!" Rhys declared, and Duncan stood and offered the knight his hand to help him rise.

"Well done, lad," the Grey Warden said, clapping Rhys on the back. "There were a couple moments there where you almost got inside my guard."

Rhys beamed and gave Duncan a worshipful gaze. Clearly the lad was smitten, and not just with the Grey Warden's martial prowess. Rhys did not advertise it, but Fergus had realized long ago that their best knight had a preference for the company of other men. He'd considered taking Rhys to his own bed, once, but now....

The teyrn's son frowned. Now that wasn't going to happen.

Duncan and Rhys walked off the field toward the armory and Fergus's eyes followed them. Would they fuck? he wondered. If Rhys had his way, they would, and Fergus knew Duncan had no objection to the company of men either. It was ridiculous to feel so envious, he thought, scolding himself. It wasn't like he had any intention of bedding either of them. Ever.

Bryce's keen eyes were upon his son, and Fergus was not quick enough to school his features into an impassive mask.

"Your mother and I would not take it amiss if Duncan did not pass the tonight in our company," he remarked as Fergus followed him from the training grounds.

"I'm sure Rhys will be thrilled with that," Fergus replied evasively.

"It's been nearly a year, Fergus."

"Yes, Father, I'm aware. I'm also aware that I'm doing you little good as a political asset restricting my attentions to women alone, since they are so much less easily swayed by mere sex than men."

"Fergus!" Bryce scolded, and the lad felt ashamed. "You know that isn't what has me concerned. If you declared you wanted nothing more to do, ever, with seductions and intrigues, I'd be perfectly content with that decision. But that's not the case, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Fergus said, feeling his heartbeat increase its pace and his palms grow sweaty at the subject. "You've given me more than enough opportunity to declare my preferences, and I wish to aid you and contribute to the prosperity of the Cousland family in whatever way I can. I wish I could say why I feel so anxious at the idea of bedding another man. I certainly didn't feel this way before Howe... brutalized me. I was eager, then, to try my wiles on a male target. Now, however, I feel like I'll be sick to my stomach whenever I think too hard about it."

"Then I'll let the subject go," the teyrn said, patting his son's shoulder. "You're perfectly old enough to choose what is best for you and I will not press you on the matter. I simply worry that you are denying yourself opportunities for pleasure when there is nothing to fear. Not all men are like Howe."

"I know that, Father, in theory. And yet...." he shrugged helplessly. "I will... consider inviting Duncan to my bed. Will that please you?"

"What will please me is to see you happy once more, and you haven't been for some time now," the teyrn said. "That's all, and nothing more. I'll see you at supper."

"Yes, Father." The young heir to the teyrnir nodded and watched unhappily as his father walked away.

"Brother! Brother!" a high-pitched voice called, and he turned to see his sister come dashing through the courtyard, her skirts flying. She flung herself at Fergus and he caught her up in his arms, lifting her slight form high into the air as though she weighed no more than a bit of dandelion fluff. "I just saw the Grey Warden!"

"Well, of course you did, pup!" he laughed, carrying her into the castle with her seated on his forearm and leaning upon his shoulder. "He's rather difficult to miss, eh?"

"Will he be staying long?" Little Rìona asked in her high, lilting voice.

"I rather think that's unlikely, pup" Fergus mused, kissing her on her crown, atop her unruly mass of chestnut waves. "I'm sure the Warden-Commander is a very busy man. He merely stops by every now and then, when he's in the Coastlands, because he and Father and Mother are old friends."

And that, Fergus thought with satisfaction, was a perfectly acceptable and diplomatic answer for the girl who had seen her seventh Name Day not half a year ago. The teyrn and teyrna had decided their children should not be introduced to the family business, as it were, until after puberty. It wasn't until Fergus had stained his sheets for the first time that his father took him out hunting and spent the day talking to him about the secret to the Cousland family's success. Until then, he hadn't realized just how _intimate_ his parents were with their intimate allies and acquaintances. His younger siblings remained in innocence until their time as well, but little Rìona was far too perceptive for her own good and special care needed to be taken to avoid awkward questions.

"I'm glad he's here," Rìona sighed as Fergus nodded to the guard outside the family wing. "Mother's less sad now that he's come."

"Mother has had a difficult year, pup." Indeed. To lose not one but two children in a single year had dealt the Cousland family a devastating blow. Second-born Stiofán, a lad of fourteen, had been fatally gored by a boar on his first hunt last summer, and Rìona's own twin brother, Aodhán, had succumbed to a lung fever in the autumn. In addition to the two girl children—one stillborn and the other dead of a fever before her first year was out—that the teyrna had borne in the ten years between Fergus's birth and Rìona's, the Couslands had lost twice as many children than had survived. It was not uncommon; many families could say the same. Often the Maker's will could be brutal, with death striking anyone suddenly, and the lives of children were fragile and uncertain things.

"I know, but today she is smiling. Surely the Warden-Commander can stay a while for her sake?" Rìona asked plaintively.

"I don't think so," Fergus said regretfully. "I imagine he'll stay to supper and pass the night here at the castle and be on his way tomorrow."

"Will I be allowed to attend supper, then? So I can meet him?"

"You're too young to dine with the adults still, pup."

"But I'm too old for the nursery by now, surely!" Rìona argued. "Besides, without Aodhán there, supper is very lonely with only Nan for company. And Mother says someday my duties will include being a hostess when I marry. When shall I begin learning?"

Fergus gave her a narrow look, but she merely blinked her deep blue eyes at him innocently. He had the distinct feeling he was being manipulated, but he could not identify the flaw in her argument.

"I shall speak with Mother and Father on your behalf, but I promise nothing," Fergus offered. "Will that placate you?"

Rìona nodded eagerly, her face wreathed in smiles. "Thank you, brother!" she said, giving him an exuberant kiss on the cheek. He bore her into the nursery and lowered her to the floor. "I must begin choosing what I shall wear to supper, then," she said, sounding very much like any woman, despite her childish form and voice. Fergus couldn't help but grin at the predictability of feminine vanity.

"I'm certain whatever you choose will be lovely, pup," he replied with an indulgent smile.

"What does a lady wear when acting as a hostess?" Rìona asked to no one in particular, opening her wardrobe as Fergus sat upon a settee to await the arrival of Nan so that he could turn his sister over to her custody. Then he found his attention abruptly drawn back to her when she inquired, "Brother, do you think I might marry a Grey Warden, someday?"

"What?" He laughed, but the countenance Rìona turned to him was completely sincere. "I should think not. With your breeding, nothing less than an arl will do. Or a prince."

"But Prince Cailan is already betrothed!" she protested.

"Then perhaps Mother and Father will search Orlais or Antiva for a man of the proper rank," he answered carelessly. "At any rate, you can certainly set your sights higher than a mere Grey Warden."

Nan entered then and Fergus made a tactical withdrawal before Rìona blurted out to her that Fergus was going to try to get her admitted to supper with the adults, not wanting to incur the old woman's wrath. Nan had strict ideas about the place of children within the Cousland household, and that place was most decidedly out of sight of the adults.

He left the nursery troubled, both by his conversation with his father and with Rìona. Her mention of marriage reminded him unpleasantly of the fact that an increasing number of Fereldan nobles were contacting his father, hinting at the possibility of betrothal contracts between himself and their eligible daughters. Fergus was in no rush to marry, but the pressure would only get worse as the years began to pass and sooner or later he would be expected to take a wife.

Doing so, however, would carry its own collection of difficulties. If he married a well brought up Fereldan girl, she'd no doubt find herself shocked and possibly horrified when and if she learned of the Couslands' decadent sexual habits. He would no doubt have to curtail his conduct to prevent such a thing happening, which meant that sooner or later, he was going to find his freedom to carry on affairs as he pleased limited.

Of course, that fate could be delayed a few years, but not indefinitely. At least he was fortunate in that he found the company of women pleasant enough, even if he did have a slight preference for men. Begetting an heir shouldn't be an issue, assuming the girl herself was likable. The material point, however, was that these present years were his years of freedom, to indulge and enjoy his pleasures without restraint. But he hadn't been doing that lately, had he?

Unbidden, his mind turned to young Stiofán. The lad had taken much more enthusiastically to the lessons on sensuality that had been part of their tutelage. Fergus had enjoyed his lessons, and saw the purpose of the teachings and the potential usefulness of such knowledge, but in his heart he was a warrior before all else.

Stiofán had been cut of a different cloth entirely, with his dark eyes and slow, lazy smile. He had blossomed under the teyrna's teachings, moving from the awkwardness of early adolescence into a strangely graceful youth. He'd been just a couple months from his fifteenth Name Day when he'd been killed, so very close to the age at which their parents would have let him start putting his theoretical knowledge into practice. He wouldn't be permitted to take a lover in the fullest sense until after he turned sixteen, but at fifteen, he could begin pleasuring and being pleasured, limited only to activities which did not involve intercourse. He'd been eagerly anticipating the day he was allowed that freedom.

If Fergus could learn anything from his brother's death, it was to respect the ephemeral nature of life and to seize his pleasures and freedoms when and where he could find them. Why, then, did his heart race with a terror so intense he thought it might kill him whenever he considered taking another lover? Were his days of youth and liberty to flee while he cowered in fear?

He supposed in a way it was his own fault for not heeding his father and mother's advice. Fergus had been eager to try his seducer's game upon a man. His initiation into sex and subsequent dalliance with the young Bann Alfstanna over the winter in Denerim had been enjoyably enlightening, but he wanted a greater challenge. It had been his own idea to target Arl Rendon Howe, his father's one-time comrade.

"Why Howe?" the teyrn had asked, confused, when Fergus had proposed the scheme. "He's neither an attractive man nor a particularly kind one."

"But he was once an ally of yours," Fergus countered, "until you sided with Arl Bryland in the Landsmeet against him. If we could win him back to our side, he would bring with him all the banns that look to Amaranthine. Who knows what benefits that may bring in the future? And you said he once desired you, and always resented that you would not indulge him. Perhaps he might find me to his taste as well."

Though Bryce had shaken his head in consternation, and Eleanor had reiterated her husband's opinion that Howe was not a target worthy of Fergus's efforts, they could find no reason to argue against the plan. And so a scheme had been hatched to send Fergus as the teyrn's emissary to Vigil's Keep over the summer to negotiate a proposal to build a grist mill along a river that acted as a border between the teyrnir of Highever and the arling of Amaranthine. As a teyrn's son, protocol would demand that he be housed at Vigil's Keep itself and shown all courtesy as Howe's guest. Once ensconced among Howe's family, Fergus could carry out his seduction at his leisure.

The plan had seemed to go off well, at first. Fergus had not been Howe's guest a week before the arl had come to his chamber in the middle of the night, urging Fergus to his knees and finding his release between the lad's eager and skilled lips. Fergus quickly realized that his father and mother were right, however. Howe was by no means a worthwhile bedmate. He neither tasted nor smelled pleasant enough to compensate for the fact that he took his pleasure selfishly and then left, making no effort to reciprocate.

Still, committed to his course, Fergus continued to act as though he was besotted with Howe and desired his companionship, hoping to win the arl's affectionate regard and thus secure him as a Cousland ally. And so weeks passed as negotiations dragged out, covering topics such as who would bear what portion of the expense of constructing the mill and who would receive which portion of the profits, whose banns and freeholders would get first priority for use of the mill, and so forth. Howe's appearance in Fergus's chambers became a near nightly thing, and Fergus was too mindful of his endgame to protest too vigorously at the arl's selfish use of his mouth for pleasure, which was all Howe seemed interested in. Instead, he wheedled and cajoled, giving the arl flirtatious smiles and asking Howe if he might want to tarry for the night and find pleasure together. It was an offer Howe always declined, until the final night before Fergus was due to depart.

That night, he invited Fergus to his chambers for some mulled wine, and thinking he had finally won the old man's affections, Fergus went. Candles cast a dim glow, and the summer night was warm enough that no fire burned on the hearth. Howe poured the wine with his own hands, and Fergus sat in a comfortable chair and listened inattentively to the arl's words, sipping and waiting for Howe to make his pleasure known.

It was only once it was too late that Fergus realized the wine had been laced with something. There was a heaviness to his limbs and when he tried to stand, the room spun madly. It was no difficult feat for Howe to push Fergus onto the bed, where he collapsed and was unable to stand again. The arl removed Fergus's shoes and unlaced his breeches, pulling them off his body, and then forcibly rolled Fergus over and dragged his legs off the bed, so that he was on his knees on the floor, bent over the bed.

"Is this what you've been craving, filthy son of a whore that you are?" Howe taunted, and through his delirium, Fergus felt a spasm of panic at those words. Surely Howe did not actually know about Teyrna Eleanor's past—! he thought in confused alarm. Surely the epithet was nothing more than an unfortunate choice of words. Fergus tried to will his body to struggle, but his arms and legs would not obey his commands.

He blinked blearily at Howe to see the arl retrieve a vial from a coffer upon his nightstand and drink it. Then he began to unlace his breeches, and his limp cock emerged, only to grow erect with astonishing speed. It had never been such a size all those night's he had found his pleasure in Fergus's mouth. What had been in that potion Howe had taken?

Howe did not indulge his curiosity, but instead tormented Fergus with his own helplessness. "Did you think I would dance to your tune, Cousland whore, and let you seduce me with your pretty words and inviting smiles? The only tune that plays here is the one I call, boy, and before I'm through this night, neither you nor your pimp of a father shall ever forget that fact."

He forced the globes of Fergus's ass apart, then, and spat upon his tightly clenched anus. With no other effort at preparation, he began forcing his way into the boy's unreceptive body. Fergus howled in agony, for Howe's drug had not deadened him to pain of this magnitude. Only the fact that he had been stretching himself on a near-daily basis for close to two years in preparation of his first encounter with a man prevented a far more serious and grievous injury from taking place.

Whereas Howe had shown no particular longevity or stamina in the weeks that had passed when he sought his pleasure of Fergus's mouth, now it seemed to go on forever, with Howe grunting and cursing and thrusting brutally into him, over and over. It was only when Fergus felt liquid begin to run out of his ass did he understand that in addition to his unnatural size, Howe's potion imbued him with the stamina to maintain his erection even after he found his release. Howe shuddered with another climax and still did not relent, and all Fergus could do was moan helplessly at the pain, which overrode any enjoyment he might have normally felt when Howe passed over that spot inside him that usually produced intense pleasure.

The arl came a third time, and a fourth, and finally did he withdraw, that magic-induced erection flagging. But he was not done with Fergus yet. He violated him with any implement he could find at hand; the hilt of a broadsword, the knobby brass stem of a candelabrum with the base removed, and even the better portion of his own fist. Fergus screamed and tore and bled but could not fight, even when Howe withdrew his hand from Fergus's ass, dripping with his own slimy, bloody seed, and forced his fingers into Fergus's mouth. He stopped only when Fergus recovered enough from his drugged wine to begin to move once again.

"Father... shall hear... about this," Fergus hissed at him.

"I certainly hope so!" Howe chuckled. "Let him call me out in the Landsmeet for fucking his whore of a son, so that I may tell all of Ferelden how you were the one who came here and seduced me. No one heeded my claims when I spread the word about that your mother was nothing but a common whore. Now they shall all know just what sort of games the Couslands play. Please, do tell him. I'm eager to hear of his reaction!"

In tremendous pain and with extreme effort, Fergus managed to gather his clothing and make his way back to his own chamber. Howe was absent the next morning when the Cousland heir departed Vigil's Keep and undertook the agonizing two-day ride home, the second of which passed with Fergus mounted with one of the guards of his escort, for he was no longer able to keep himself in the saddle.

Once home, he suffered under his mother's worried attentions until a healing mage was summoned to repair some of the damage Howe had done. By then Fergus was already delirious and feverish. It was mere luck that had a Circle mage passing through Highever at the time with her templar escort, gathering some herbs which grew only in the Coastlands for potions. It turned out to be a happenstance which saved Fergus's life. The mage informed them that the attack had damaged his bowel and he would have taken septic and died without a mage's healing magic.

Teyrna Eleanor was incensed and demanded that Bryce demand justice for Howe's attack on their son. It was Fergus, rasping through a throat still raw from screaming, who protested. "It's what he wants!" he said with effort. "He thinks he knows something about the Couslands, or perhaps he actually does. He wants to reveal our affairs before the Landsmeet and discredit us."

Bryce and Eleanor had exchanged concerned glances then. Truthfully, though they had always been discreet, if some of the targets of their past seductions began to suspect they had been used, things could unravel for the Cousland family quite quickly.

"If we call him out, he wins," Fergus stated, gritting his teeth as tears seeped from his eyes. "Nothing that benefits us can come from it. The only way we can best him is to let him believe I never told you what has happened. Let him be stymied by my supposed silence. You must continue to act as though he is your friend and ally. In fact, behave as though there is new-found goodwill between you both. Drown him in kindness. That will truly infuriate him."

Though it had galled him to do so, the teyrn had agreed. The teyrna had been less gracious. She had declared that she would not play hostess to that rat of a man, and if he came to Highever, he would get no courteous reception from her. Thus, no invitations were sent to Howe requesting that he come visit Highever as he had in the past when their families had been close. Bryce had had to make do sending warm letters that he wrote with a clenched jaw, effusive with friendship, to the arl discussing other potential benefits to the renewed intimacy between Highever and Amaranthine.

Fergus had made no attempt to take another man to his bed after that, even after he was healed. He had bedded a couple girls, and passed another night with Bann Alfstanna the last time he was in Denerim, but nothing more. He felt desire when looking upon certain men, of that there was no question, and yet the _fear_! That nauseating, palms-sweating, heart-racing sense of panic that filled him every time he considered placing himself at another man's mercy.... Even the thought of taking the dominant role with another man could not make him feel safe enough to take the risk.

And yet....

He thought of his mother and her satisfied smile this morning, a smile which had been absent much of this past year. Though she loved her children dearly, the loss of Stiofán—who was perhaps the most like her—and little Aodhán had been a terrible blow for the teyrna. Even once the mourning periods were over she carried her sadness around her like a cloak, her eyes distant and haunted. There had been no seductions this past year, no intrigues or games. When the teyrn had relocated to spend the winter at court in Denerim, taking Fergus and Rìona with him, the teyrna had elected to stay behind and spend the season in near total isolation in the castle, cut off from the world by snow and impassible roads for months on end. Fergus had feared for his mother then, concerned that her grief was so profound she might not find her way back to them. But when the snows had melted and the teyrn and his children had journeyed back to Highever, she had greeted them warmly and seemed somewhat closer to her old self than she had been before they had left.

And now she was smiling. Now she carried herself with the light, sensual grace that was so very familiar, so very much a part of her. Now she did not trudge heavily along under the weight of her grief. What had she found, Fergus wondered, with Duncan in her bed to have wrought such a change? Surely it was more than mere pleasure, for she could—and likely did—have that any night with her husband. Had it simply been her time to come out of mourning, or had she somehow rediscovered _herself_ , some reminder of who she used to be?

Could he do the same?

After the sparring match he had just witnessed, Fergus knew there was no way he could match Duncan at arms. If Duncan turned brutish, there was Fergus couldn't possibly hope to prevail against him. The thought made Fergus's stomach churn, made beads of sweat pop out along his brow and trickle down his back beneath his satin doublet. But the teyrn and teyrna trusted the Grey Warden, trusted him in a way they had never trusted Howe. They took him to their bed, and confided in him the family secrets. Surely if Fergus could be safe with any man, it would be Duncan.

That knowledge did nothing to calm the frantic pounding of his heart, the roaring pulse of his blood in his ears. Nor did it prevent the bitter, metallic taste of fear from flooding his mouth. Yet it did awaken his determination. The Grey Warden's visits were scarce; sometimes years might pass before he came to call at Highever. If Fergus did not seize this chance, there might not be another opportunity for some time.

Grimly, he forced his reluctant feet toward the guest chamber of the family wing where the Grey Warden was ensconced, lifting hand moist with sweat to rap upon the panels of the door. He turned the handle when Duncan's voice called out permission to enter and then froze to see Duncan seated at a small, wooden table, running his dagger along a whetstone.

"Lord Fergus," Duncan greeted politely, laying aside the dagger and rising. "It's good to see you. I regretted that I arrived after supper last evening and did not have a chance to greet you."

Fergus blinked slowly, shutting out the sight of the dagger for a moment, attempting not to see it as a broadsword, its wide pommel wet with blood and seed. This was his father and mother's trusted friend and confidante. He would come to no harm here.

"You're very welcome here, Warden-Commander," he forced himself to say, hoping his voice didn't sound as strangled as his tight throat left him feeling. "I know the teyrn and teyrna are glad you have come."

"Thank you," the Warden replied, and gestured to a chair for Fergus to sit, which he did, clasping his shaking hands in his lap. "I only regret that I could not come sooner. I was away from Denerim when your family wintered there this past year and did not get your father's letter until the spring. I wish I had been able to come and pay my condolences to your parents earlier."

"It's been a trying year for us in Highever," Fergus agreed. "But now that you're come, even Mother seems much more herself."

"I can take no credit for that," Duncan demurred.

"Can you not?"

"Teyrna Eleanor is a remarkable and strong woman. It has taken her time to recover from her wounds, perhaps, but I have played no part in that process. I have merely had the good fortune to arrive in time to see it meet its conclusion."

"So you think it mere coincidence that she and my father spend a night in your bed and she emerges wreathed in smiles, the likes of which we haven't seen from her in nigh unto a year?" Fergus asked incredulously.

The Grey Warden merely shrugged. "Over the long years of my acquaintance with the teyrn and his wife, I've noticed they often use pleasure to heal injuries both large and small. It's an... interesting habit of theirs, and not the first time I've seen them work through their troubles in such a way. If I have played any role, it is that I offered an opportunity for a pleasure they rarely have a chance to see, a bit of novelty to heighten the enjoyment. But make no mistake, it was none of my doing."

Fergus scowled in frustration, unhappy with Duncan's answer, though he couldn't quite be certain why. Had he expected Duncan to confess to some sort of healing magic or unusual skill that he could pass a night with a woman and make her troubles disappear? Emotional wounds were not like physical injuries, which could be undone at a healer's magical touch. They took time, and patience. Was it true what Duncan said? Had Teyrna Eleanor been healing all this time, only they hadn't noticed as she slowly reclaimed herself, instead waiting for a moment of dramatic and fundamental change to announce her emergence from her grieving?

And if that was the case, what did that portend for Fergus's own wounds?

"You're Father's closest confidante," Fergus heard himself saying. "Does that mean he has told you everything that happened, this year past?"

"He mentioned that you had been injured, and that they had nearly lost you as well."

"Did he tell you that my injuries were sustained because the man I had intended to seduce turned violent on me?"

Duncan paused, his eyebrows lifting, but his voice was still calm. "No, the teyrn didn't mention that. I suppose he did not wish to share with me any details you might not wish others to know."

"Interesting, considering it's at his urging that I am here."

"To what purpose?"

"I've not been able to abide the touch of another man since it happened, nor even the idea of such," Fergus said quickly, before he lost his nerve.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Father seems to be of the mind that I should pass the night with you. Get back on the horse, as it were. Er, if you'll forgive the potentially unflattering—or mayhap very flattering, I suppose—cliche."

Maker's balls, could he possibly sound more like a blithering idiot? Fergus wondered in despair.

Duncan blinked slowly. "I see. And may I ask what are your thoughts on the subject?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You'll forgive me if I am not of the opinion that Teyrn Cousland's desires should be the deciding factor in this particular matter," Duncan said patiently. "So, have you come merely because your father sent you, or is it your own wish that brings you here?"

"My wish?" Fergus gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "My wish is that I shouldn't spend the few years of freedom I have before duty obliges me to take a wife and curtail my pleasures shrinking in fear from the very passions that goad me."

"If it's your thought that I can somehow eradicate your fears, then I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment," Duncan said frankly. "You're an appealing young man, and I confess to being intrigued by the idea, but I'm no mage to confer healing with a touch."

Fergus looked away, tears nearly unmanning him as he clenched his teeth and struggled to find some dignity. He could feel Duncan's gaze upon him, calm and sympathetic.

"What must I do to conquer this, then?" he asked, softly.

"Only you can answer that, lad. What is it you want to do?"

What did he want to do? It was a more difficult question than Duncan might imagine, for what he wanted and what he felt capable of accomplishing were two entirely different matters. Duncan was an attractive man, undoubtedly, but also a hard man. Any softness he might have once possessed had been worn away long ago. There was no question of taking the dominant role with him, even if Fergus had desired it, and yet surrendering control to a man whose entire person spoke of barely-constrained violence was terrifying.

But Fergus wanted him. That much was certain. The only question was whether or not his courage was equal to his will.

Duncan rose from his chair and began to unbuckle the belts that held in place his long leather bases. The plate vambraces and greaves and cuirass he usually wore had been removed sometime before Fergus arrived, no doubt sent off with a squire to be cleaned and polished after his sparring match with Rhys.

Fergus said nothing, though he grew more tense and ready to flee with each garment Duncan removed, until at last the Grey Warden stood before him in nothing but his braies. Somehow the contrast of the white linen against that darkly toned skin was more suggestive than total nudity might have been.

Fergus took in his chest, wide and hard. He was all muscle and sinew, his dark skin marred with myriad pale lines and puckered, knotted scars. He was aroused, his erection filling out and straining against the close-fitting linen covering his loins, but he made no effort to approach Fergus. He sat upon the edge of the bed and waited, watching Fergus with eyes so dark a shade of brown they might have been black. His expression was placid, patient. Fergus thought Duncan might have sat there all day.

"What is it you wish of me?" Fergus finally asked, unable to bear any longer the weight of that stare.

"I won't touch you unless and until you approach me first. Seduction is your game, lad, not mine."

"It's not really mine, either," Fergus sighed. "I play it well, but I'll never be the artist Stiofán might have been."

"Then what is your art?"

"I'm a warrior," he said, lifting his chin proudly. "I haven't the skill with a blade that you or Rhys possess, perhaps, but I'm a damned good leader and strategist."

Duncan nodded. "I suspected as much. Does a warrior quit the field, never to return, if he takes a wound in his first battle? Or does he heal and march forth to meet the enemy once more?"

"Are you accusing me of cowardice?" Fergus asked in disbelief.

"It's only cowardice if you flee rather than face the battle."

His pride goaded, Fergus rose and began to undress, his hands shaking, his palms sweating as he fumbled with the toggles of his doublet. And still Duncan sat there, his hands on his thighs, as unmoving as a stone.

For all that Duncan claimed seduction was not his game, Fergus could not help but notice just how deftly the Grey Warden had prodded him into action, skillfully manipulating his pride. Fergus wondered if the Warden knew he had done it, or if it had merely been accidental.

Still, this was by far and away the most progress he'd made with a man since his ordeal and Howe's hands, and inertia was beginning to be a factor as well. Now that he had begun, it was easier to continue. Indeed, some of the training he'd received came into play and he began to make a show of the disrobing, for he knew he was attractive; tall and straight, well-muscled and strong. His body had the rangy smoothness of his youth, not yet hardened into bulging knots by years of war and strife, nor softened into fat by easy living. He could take pride in revealing that to Duncan, to show the Warden the prize he was getting.

His own desire was rampant now, as he discarded the linen shirt worn under his doublet and stood before Duncan in his braies, and before his courage could fail him, he released the drawstring and pushed them down his hips. Even the brush of the cloth over his glans felt exquisite, and he thought he might spend himself at the merest touch like a stripling lad with his first cockstand. Surely the humiliation of _that_ would spell the end of his fledgling will for good.

And yet... perhaps that wasn't such a bad idea after all. He'd not last long one way or the other, certainly. Why not let himself spend, and take his time with it thereafter?

He took his cock in hand and stroked as he approached Duncan, and despite his fear, he smiled in satisfaction to see Duncan's eyes drop, the Warden's pupils dilating as he watched Fergus caress himself. Howe had certainly never demonstrated any such interest. Duncan's hands twitched, but did not move, and seeing that, Fergus felt something within him ease. The Grey Warden had meant it when he said he'd not touch Fergus unless Fergus willed it.

He was safe here. He'd known that all along, but now he was starting to truly believe it. And with that faith came a more purposeful desire.

He wanted the Warden's touch.

He sat upon the bed and scooted backward until he could lie fully upon it, for he still could not quite bring himself to feel secure crawling forward on his hands and knees with Duncan at his back. Nonetheless he lay back, supine upon the pillows, as Duncan turned toward him and followed his progress with nothing but his dark eyes. A small wet spot had turned the linen straining over Duncan's erection nearly transparent and Fergus's eyes shut with the surge of desire that sight evoked within him.

"Touch me," he pleaded and groaned softly as Duncan obliged.

The Warden's calloused fingers encircled his cock as Fergus's own fell away and Duncan took over the task of stroking him. The muscles in Fergus's buttocks flexed as he arched, pushing himself up into Duncan's palm, and then the moist heat of Duncan's mouth was upon him.

Dear, sweet Andraste, it was good, engulfing his achingly hard cock. It didn't take much, just the slightest bit of suction, and Fergus came with a shout, thrusting upward and spending in the Warden's mouth. Duncan did not draw away or spit it out, but drank it down, licking Fergus's over-sensitive cock softly as it twitched and softened.

Only then did Duncan move his body over Fergus's, his weight pressing Fergus into the mattress. Fergus stiffened for a moment, but that feeling of being trapped lasted no longer than it took for Duncan's mouth to claim his, the Warden's lips still salty with the taste of his seed. Fergus gave himself over to that kiss, surrendered to it, let it wash away his fear and panic and replace it with the languorous warmth of desire.

Fergus had thought, then, that Duncan might demand immediate reciprocation for the service he had rendered, but he did not. Instead, the Grey Warden seemed intent on exploring Fergus. He covered Fergus's neck with licks and kisses and love-bites until Fergus writhed and moaned with pleasure. His hands ranged up and down the softly swelling muscles of Fergus's chest and abdomen, stroking over the younger man's ribs, gripping the jutting bones of Fergus's hips as Duncan ground his cloth-covered erection into Fergus's groin, where his own cock began to slowly stir back to life.

Fergus felt another frisson of fear as his knees came up to bracket Duncan's hard hips, for in so doing he was opening himself, making himself vulnerable. But Duncan made no move that could be construed as threatening. Instead, he rocked against Fergus, thrusting against him over and over, until Fergus caught his rhythm and began thrusting back in a pantomime of fucking. They kissed, over and over, as they rocked together until Fergus knew in intimate detail the feel of Duncan's mouth and tongue, until his hands had memorized every ripple and scar and bulge upon the Warden's back from the taut muscles of his shoulders to the taut hardness of his flexing backside, until the skin of his groin began to chafe from the wet linen of Duncan's braies.

"Maker, Duncan, please!" Fergus begged, not even certain what it was he was requesting, only knowing that he needed _more_. If seduction was his art, one certainly could not have told it from this encounter, for there was nothing here but raw need and desire, driving out the vestiges of fear and leaving in their place yearning.

Duncan drew back and began to work his way down Fergus's body, evading the younger man's grasping hands as they sought to pull him closer. With lips and tongue the Warden lavished attention upon one hard, flat nipple and then the other, and all Fergus could do was squirm beneath him and plead for more. He did not treat Fergus's nipples as a stopping point on his way to something else, but as an end in and of themselves, taking his time with them, making no effort to progress further. Fergus ground his cock, erect again, against Duncan's hard chest, groaning.

Fergus, who learned all manner of ways of pleasing women and men alike at his mother's hands, had himself never been pleasured quite so skillfully, never been left so desperately wanting. Surely Duncan's control wasn't infinite; surely he must take his pleasure sooner or later and end this torment of longing. But then, Duncan had passed the night in pleasure in the teyrna's bed. His needs would be well-sated and lacking the urgency of Fergus's own.

The thought made Fergus moan in despair, for it meant Duncan could draw things out at his leisure, regardless of Fergus's impatience. And yet Fergus felt a tremor where his hands stroked and kneaded Duncan's shoulders that spoke of a desire more pressing than the controlled arousal the Warden was conducting. Duncan was holding himself in check, but for what?

Even as the question came to him, Fergus knew the answer.

Permission.

"I want you to take me," Fergus gasped as Duncan's teeth scraped gently over his nipple.

Growling what Fergus prayed was assent, Duncan—thank blessed Andraste!—began to work his way down Fergus's body. He kissed and licked the hard planes of Fergus's abdomen, dipped his tongue into the hollows before Fergus's hip bones. He gave a couple strokes with his tongue along the throbbing length of Fergus's cock, but did not tarry there. Instead, he licked down the creases of his groin, caressing Fergus's sensitive sac, cupping and kneading it with his hand, laving it with his tongue, gently drawing the globes one after another into his mouth.

Fergus sighed softly, writhing in pleasure. His hands rested lightly on Duncan's head, mussing the neat queue in back. He drew his knees up even further without thinking of the way he was exposing himself, making himself vulnerable. All he wanted was to give Duncan more access.

Duncan's hands stroked soothingly along the backs of his thighs, urging them up further, spreading them wider. When Duncan's tongue found the knotted entrance resting in the cleft of Fergus's backside, Fergus cried out with pleasure, catching his hands behind his knees and pulling them to his chest, opening himself up fully. Duncan's hands rested on Fergus's thighs and buttocks, stroking, caressing, making no effort to invade or probe. No, it was his tongue which did that, twisting and flicking and pushing against that tightly closed muscle.

Occasionally Duncan moved away to nibble lightly on the rounded globes of Fergus's ass, or to suck on the taut ridge between his balls and his opening. As Fergus relaxed, Duncan's mouth became more demanding. He sucked and slurped and made sounds as though he were the one being pleasured, rather than Fergus. Fergus could not remember any cause for fear when Duncan's tongue began to probe more firmly, pushing inside his ass as the ring of muscle relaxed; rather, Fergus cried out in approval, wriggling in an effort to seek more.

He wanted Duncan inside him now, more than ever before. There was no room for terror in that need, for the hints of pleasure drove away the memory of pain. He made his request again, asking Duncan to take him, but Duncan gave no sign of hearing him. The Warden instead began to _fuck_ Fergus with his tongue, thrusting and withdrawing in a rhythm that was at once intensely pleasurable and yet immensely unsatisfactory.

"Duncan, _please!_ " Fergus cried, releasing his knees to limit Duncan's access and thus insuring he had the Warden's attention. Duncan looked up the line of Fergus's body, past his throbbing cock. His eyes were nearly black, dark with passion. His dark beard was beaded with saliva and Fergus knew if he kissed Duncan, he would _taste_ himself on the Warden's lips. Fergus gave a helpless moan at the thought and closed his eyes, grasping for sanity.

"Fuck me," he begged softly, desperately. Duncan nodded with an approving expression—almost a smile—and pushed himself up off the bed. He retrieved the small flask of oil that resided in the bureau and brought it to the bed. Fergus drew his knees up, thinking Duncan would prepare him, but instead the Warden lay down on his back and handed Fergus the oil.

"Ride me," Duncan said encouragingly. "You know far better than I what you feel you can bear."

Fergus had to close his eyes again for a moment, wrestling for control of himself at the image Duncan's words evoked. He saw himself sinking down upon Duncan's cock, imagined it stretching him as he took it in all the way, inch by slow, delicious inch. Resolutely he nodded and rose up, accepting the flask.

Kneeling upon the bed, Fergus poured oil into his hand, slicking his fingers, and reached back, smearing oil along the cleft of his ass until he found his opening, wet with Duncan's saliva, and eased a finger in. Oh, _Maker_. It had been so many months since he'd attended to this task, which once he'd performed daily, that he felt tight as a virgin. He'd nearly forgotten how good this was, just having his own fingers within himself. It had been too long, had been too easy to recall the pain of Howe's assault. He'd neglected pleasuring himself, letting the carved toys he'd acquired and the skills he'd learned both languish.

He slid his finger in and out, slowly, deliberately, spreading the oil about and relaxing his muscles. His eyes closed, his head fell back, the cords of his neck stretching. Without thinking his other hand slid down his belly to encircle his erection and he stroked it softly as he fucked himself with that single finger. Even Duncan was dismissed for a moment. He'd forgotten these pleasures. It was time to remember.

Duncan would not allow himself to be overlooked for long, however.

"Turn around, lad. Let me see you."

Fergus felt himself grow tense around his own finger as he thought of turning his back to the Warden, but Duncan made no effort to rise from his supine position upon the bed, nor made any movement toward Fergus. Nodding, Fergus turned around on his knees so that he faced away from Duncan. He added more oil and inserted his finger again. It was easy this time, the pleasure that came with the stretching was minimal. He added another finger and slowly, very slowly worked them both in, turning and spreading, thrusting and withdrawing. Still Duncan did not touch him; he could barely ever hear the Warden breathing over his own panting breaths. Maker, it was good, and he wanted more, ever more. He'd never had another man inside him in pleasure, and he wanted it, wanted it desperately. A greedy part of him wanted to straddle Duncan then and take him inside, but the Warden was amply endowed and Fergus wasn't sure his fear would let him abide any pain.

He added a third finger, groaning as he stretched. He fucked his cock into his oiled palm as his fingers twisted and wriggled, moving in and out. He heard a low, growling moan that echoed his own and realized it was Duncan, growing impatient with his weight, even more aroused at seeing Fergus prepare himself to receive him. He worked his fingers in as deeply as he could, knowing there was more pleasure to be had that he could not find with his own fingers at this angle. He wanted it, wanted to be filled deeply, completely. Wanted to feel pressure upon that spot within.

It was time.

He withdrew his fingers and turned around to see Duncan watching him with a look of eager hunger. Fergus felt an instant of unease. There was so much potential for violence and mayhem in the Grey Warden, so much tightly leashed aggression. And yet, to have come this far, still calmly waiting, spoke of the strength of his control. That aggression would not come off the leash unless Duncan willed it.

He was safe here.

He poured more oil into his palm and rubbed it between his hands, then took Duncan's cock in his hand and began to slick oil over it. Duncan was hard and hot and throbbing against Fergus's palm. Only then did Fergus realize he'd gone all this time and never really touched Duncan. Some skilled seducer he was turning out to be, he thought wryly.

Duncan felt good in his hand; familiar and yet different from his own cock. Slightly longer, minutely narrower. His foreskin glided along his shaft, easing forward and back with Fergus's strokes. Duncan pushed ever so slightly with his hips, which spoke perhaps more strongly than anything about the state of his control. He'd been patient and calm, waiting for Fergus to decide he was ready. Now the moment was upon them and Fergus found he had the courage to carry out his will after all.

Duncan's eyes were dark and intent as Fergus moved over his body, straddling the Grey Warden's hips. He stroked again with his oil-slicked hand, taking joy in the feeling of power that derived from watching Duncan's eyes close with pleasure, his mouth falling open slightly, his body tightening, moving into Fergus's caress. Duncan's hands rested upon Fergus's thighs, carefully, not gripping but simply laying there, allowing Fergus to proceed at his own pace without urging. But there was a tremor in those hands and once again Fergus found himself amazed to realize that it was not the lack of urgent need within Duncan, but Duncan's utter mastery of that urgency, that reassured him most.

Fergus lowered himself, guided the flaring head of Duncan's cock between the globes of his backside. He moved until Duncan was poised at his very entrance, pressing lightly. Had Duncan thrust up, he would have pierced Fergus in that moment, before Fergus could move away. But the Grey Warden was completely still, waiting, waiting....

Slowly, ever so slowly, Fergus began to sink down.

"Oh, Maker...." he groaned as the stretching began. Duncan arched slightly, his head rolling back, his neck stretching so that the hard knot at the front of his throat, normally hidden by his beard, was made visible. That was the last Fergus saw before his own eyes slammed shut, his own head falling back. There was a slight burn, but only for an instant. He pushed through it, fighting not to tense up, and then the widest part had passed within him and there was only pleasure.

 _Sweet Andraste's mercy_ such pleasure! His entire body was rigid with it as he sank down further. So good, so very good, being filled. Better than his own fingers, better than a carved phallus of cold and unyielding wood or animal horn. Warmth and flesh was better, more yielding—if only slightly—and simply more _real_. He could not actually feel the pulse and flow of blood within that flesh, but somehow it mattered that it was there, that there was a person at the other end of it.

But more importantly, there was no pain, and almost no fear. Fergus was not drugged and helpless and begging for mercy. This was pleasure and sharing, and if he was vulnerable, it was not a weakness to be exploited here.

They moaned together when Fergus's long, slow descent finally ended, his backside settling upon Duncan's hard hips. He could tell by Duncan's shaking hands that the Grey Warden wanted to seize control, wanted to thrust up into him and begin fucking him, but still he waited, poised on that dangerous knife's-edge of restraint, for Fergus to adapt. But Fergus had been thorough in his preparations, and it did not take all that long.

This time Duncan's hands did grip Fergus's thighs, as the younger man began to rise up, his cock bobbing as it reared up before him. He nearly lifted himself entirely off Duncan's cock, only to sink back down, faster this time, less carefully. And if being filled was good, being in motion was even better. He repeated the movement, and again, losing more of his caution each time.

Duncan's hands moved from his thighs to his hips, and Fergus knew his restraint, his forbearance with Fergus's deliberate pace, was at an end. Before that happened, this was one thing Fergus found he needed to do. When he next began to rise up off Duncan, he leaned forward and kissed him, not merely in passion, but in gratitude. Duncan's hard hands left his hips to cup his head and deepen the kiss, his tongue thrusting and invading Fergus's mouth as surely as his cock invaded Fergus's body. With a shuddering sigh, Fergus surrendered to that kiss, to the light bites of teeth and the itchy scrape of Duncan's rough beard chafing his skin.

With that surrender, it was as though a dam broke loose. Duncan seized Fergus's hips once more and began to surge up into him forcefully and _dear Maker_ that was better still.

"Yes," Fergus sobbed, rising and falling in counterpoint to the rolling thrusts of Duncan's hips, driving himself upon Duncan's cock, impaling himself. His head was flung back, his skin shone with sweat, his breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps and pants. Duncan was scarcely more composed. The tendons of his neck stood out and his fingers were likely to leave bruises upon Fergus's hips, but it didn't matter. Fergus was far beyond fear or pain. All that mattered was Duncan filling him, moving within him.

Occasionally by chance, Duncan would brush past that spot inside him that made the pleasure so unbearably intense, but shift as he might, Fergus couldn't capture the angle to get more than the infrequent stroke, and he wanted more, wanted it all. He stopped moving, and was gratified to see that it Duncan was lost enough in his own pleasure that it took him a few more thrusts to notice that Fergus was no longer working with him. The Grey Warden was no longer entirely in control of himself, and while that perhaps should have frightened Fergus, instead it made him feel powerful.

Fergus moved off Duncan's body, holding the Warden's eyes as he did so, and very deliberately turned around and bent over onto his hands and knees. As he did so, he knew that frisson of fear and a sense of vulnerability, but he did not shrink away as Duncan rose and positioned himself behind Fergus. Duncan took it upon himself to take up the flask of oil and smear more over his cock, to drizzle it down the cleft of Fergus's ass and work it in with his fingers. And then he felt Duncan's beard and lips upon the muscles of his back for a moment before Duncan positioned himself at Fergus's opening and thrust home with a smooth, sure stroke.

"Sweet Andraste!" Fergus moaned. His elbows turned to water and refused to support his weight, and so he sank his chest down upon the pillows with his ass lifted, wholly open and at Duncan's mercy. But it was good, so unbearably good. Duncan knew what he wanted and made certain he got it, working himself across that spot within Fergus until Fergus thrashed his head and groaned, clawing at the bedclothes, biting at the pillows. Sometimes the pleasure was so overwhelming that Fergus began to struggle, tried to crawl away, but Duncan's hands on his hips drew him back. The Warden alternated slow, purposeful thrusts intended to hit that mark precisely with moments of hard, unrestrained motion, slamming into Fergus with a force that drove him forward until he was nearly laying prone upon the bed, only for Duncan to draw back, pulling on Fergus's hips to haul him back up again.

It was sublime. It was unbearable. Fergus wasn't sure he could take another moment, and yet he wanted it never to end. But then Duncan's pace slowed, his entire body vibrating behind Fergus as he drew in deep, gulping breaths and his sweat dripped onto Fergus's back as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Fergus's skin. One of his sinewy arms came over the top of Fergus's shoulder and pulled him back, until he was upright on his knees, his back pressed against the perspiration-slicked skin of Duncan's chest. It changed the angle of penetration, made is shallower, less intense, but before Fergus could think to complain, Duncan's other hand came around his hip and took hold of his cock.

Fergus grunted and thrust into Duncan's hand as Duncan kissed his shoulders, the back of his neck. The Warden's calloused hand pumped harder, faster, and his cock moved inside Fergus, until Fergus nearly sobbed with pleasure as he came, spending himself in almost painfully intense spurts upon the bedclothes. He barely even had a chance to recover himself before Duncan pushed him down again and took his own pleasure with hard, savage thrusts, pumping his release deep inside Fergus.

Fergus wasn't even certain how he came to be lying on his side, held in Duncan's arms as he wept. He wept with relief at his triumph over his own terror, and with sorrow at the fact that his first such experience had been ruined by violence and brutality when it might have been a thing of beauty. He wept with revelation for finally understanding that the game of seduction was not for him, and with the freedom that awareness brought him, that he no longer had to try to be something he was not. He wept for the tragedies of the year past, for lovely, dark-eyed young Stiofán who would never know this rapture and for gentle, delicate Aodhán who would never have a chance to decide what his path would be.

If Duncan thought less of him for his tears, the Grey Warden said nothing. When Fergus's weeping subsided, Duncan rose and damped a cloth in the basin and began to clean him of the tears drying on his face and the seed that seeped out from between his buttocks.

"Thank you," Fergus murmured at last, feeling the lassitude of spent passion weighing down his limbs, leaving him tranquil and pliant. Duncan gave a silent nod and a slight smile, but made no effort to speak, merely watching Fergus with his nearly black eyes. Fergus wondered what he should do next. If Duncan were the target of a planned seduction, this would be where Fergus would get chatty, attempting to charm him out of whatever concession the Couslands were seeking. But the Grey Warden was different, the one person in perhaps the entire world with whom none of the Couslands need ever practice their wiles. He was lover and confidante and confessor all in one, and Fergus wondered if it was merely the pleasure that kept him returning to Highever to fulfill that role, or if there was something more that the enigmatic Warden found here which drew him back.

Fergus thought he might sleep here, if the Warden would permit it, for dressing and leaving seemed like too much trouble. But just as he was about to murmur a drowsy request, the sonorous ringing of a distant bell made its way through the narrow vents at the top of the stone walls.

"Maker!" he gasped, sitting up suddenly. "That's the warning bell for supper!"

For the first time, Duncan gave him some indication of his own desires, some sign that he wanted more of Fergus and that he wasn't simply indulging Fergus. "I was giving some thought to summoning a servant to bring a tray, if you're of a mind to remain here with me for the evening."

Fergus turned to look at him in surprise. "You... want me to stay?"

At that, Duncan laughed. It was a deep, slightly rusty sound that suggested he didn't find all that much opportunity for humor. "That was just the beginning, lad," he said, and there was such promise in those words that Fergus felt himself weaken with desire. "It would hardly be fitting to send you off when we've barely made a start. Again, if you're of a mind to stay."

The confidence it took to make that offer, leaving himself vulnerable to rejection, astounded Fergus and rendered him speechless for a long moment. A more insecure man would never have made it. But Duncan merely sat there, calm and intent, awaiting his answer. If he felt self-conscious or vulnerable at all, it didn't show.

It was on the tip of Fergus's tongue to assent, until he remembered his promise.

"I want to," he found himself answering instead. "More than I dreamed possible, I want to. But I promised Rìona that I'd speak with Mother and Father about allowing her to take supper in the dining hall with the adults tonight. She very badly wants to meet you, in particular."

Though Duncan's laughter subsided, his smile did not, only softening. "Well, it wouldn't be very congenial of me to decline an opportunity to dine with the Lady Rìona. I suppose we really ought to take our supper in the hall, then."

"I agree," Fergus said, standing to seek out his clothing. He dressed in silence under Duncan's watchful eyes, trying not to preen under the fact that the Grey Warden found him attractive enough to warrant such close attention. Only once he was dressed did Duncan rise from the bed, his cock half-erect again. Fergus suddenly found himself being stalked, the nude Warden moving purposefully forward until he had Fergus pinned against the panels of the door.

"You will be back here after supper."

It wasn't a question.

Duncan's lips closed on Fergus's throat above the open collar of his doublet and suddenly Fergus had a hard time formulating any response other than "yes."

He gave over trying to be glib and simply and simply sighed the word into Duncan's mouth.

He made it out of Duncan's chamber still fully dressed. He wasn't sure how; certainly by the time the kiss had ended his own volition had compelled him to stay.

"Brother, brother!" Rìona's high, child's voice echoed off the stone walls of the family wing as Fergus made it back to his own room. She came dashing out of the nursery in a simple frock of burgundy velvet that made her look unusually adult. Fergus had a strange moment of prescience, seeing in the child before him the lovely women she would one day become, and felt a strange pang of grief for how quickly the years between now and then would flee.

"Pup! You've escaped Nan again? Twice in one day might be a record, I think," he said, smiling at her.

"I'm all dressed for supper!" she announced. "But Nan says you were just telling me what I wanted to hear and wouldn't really speak to Mother and Father for me." Tears shimmered in her cobalt eyes and she stared at him, her expression distressed. "You wouldn't break your word to me, would you, brother?"

"Never, pup!" he vowed, swinging her up into his arms. "I even spoke with the Grey Warden for you, and he's looking forward to making your acquaintance at supper. Now that our esteemed guest is expecting your attendance, Mother and Father can hardly refuse, can they? Come. We'll go speak with them together and make our case."

He'd intended to bathe quickly and dress before going to speak to the teyrn and teyrna, but Rìona's presence put an end to that plan. He would simply need to resign himself to the fact that his mother and father would no doubt draw their own conclusions from the rumpled condition of his clothing and the smell of sex upon him.

Ah, well. They were Couslands, after all, he thought, lifting his chin, resolving not to be embarrassed.

"Brother," Rìona asked, touching his neck just below the high line of his collar. "Have you been to the kennels? I had bruises just like that on my wrist when the last litter of mabari pups were teething!"

Pester as she might, Fergus would not answer when she demanded to know why he nearly dropped her laughing.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Dragon Age: Origins and associated content belong to EA and BioWare. I'm making no profit off their use.**


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